


Creative Miracles & Love Making

by Dorotheian



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crowley and Aziraphale quarreling, M/M, Sauntering Vaguely Upwards, angels breaking physics, angels don't get therapy but they do get revelation, extraplanar sex or the next thing to it, love making means literally making stuff, wrestling with a Christian worldview
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorotheian/pseuds/Dorotheian
Summary: In which our heroes are called to avert a Second Apocalypse; the Pulsifers have an ordinary baby; Aziraphale longs to Create; and while neither heaven nor hell want any part of him, and that's fine, God Herself isn't done with Crowley.





	1. Only the Good Men Bless the Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Nothing here but nothingness_  
>  _Cold heart stuck in this_  
>  _Couldn't say the kindest words we knew_  
>  —Moby, “Raining Again"  
>   
>   
> 

****Crowley did not see much point in keeping track of humans. They would die. He did not want to become attached to any one in particular. He was far too attached to _humans_ already. To this day, if he thought about Jesus[ † ] or Judas[ † † ] for too long….. Besides Adam, to his deep embarrassment, there was Warlock—Crowley tried not to think about him. If he ever got around to asking, and he hoped he didn’t, Aziraphale probably know where Warlock was.[ ††† ] Forgetting about them...that was probably for the best.

Aziraphale was not of the same opinion. He did not make friends with humans lightly, but with those few that he did, he kept careful, conscientious track of birthdays and conspicuous events in their lives, and made sure to have (at least) a five minute chat once every six months if he was not contacted before then. “We’ve only got so much time to enjoy them,” he told Crowley, in clipped tones.

“We’ll see them on the other side of eternity. They’ll either end up in heaven or hell, and then they’ll be there to make us miserable until---” Crowley waved an impetuous arm.

“Are you so sure?” Aziraphale looked at him, steely over the edges of his false bookseller’s glasses.

Crowley’s stomach clenched and shriveled on the spot. “No.”

“We’re going to Tadfield,” Aziraphale announced. “Tonight.”

Crowley did not argue with Aziraphale’s human visiting appointments after that.

* * *

“Merry Christmas!” Anathema opened the door before either of them could knock or ring the doorbell. She smiled energetically at them both and ushered them inside. She locked the door behind them. Her scent floated in the air behind her and Crowley stiffened. He surreptitiously scented the air with his tongue, just to check. _Pregnant. Babies_ , he thought, then, _oh no,_ as Aziraphale dragged him inside by the wrist. _It’s a trap._ Dinner was waiting at the table, and Newt bade them to sit.

“It’s so nice to see you,” Anathema said briskly. “Thanks for keeping in touch.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” said Aziraphale, smiling beneficently. “Thank _you_ for inviting us. And I must say, the love feels quite _profound_ today.”

Crowley kicked Aziraphale under the table and hissed. Aziraphale kicked back. Anathema laughed in her tinkly way.

Newt blinked. “Am I missing something?”

Anathema took his hand. “Yes, Newt.”

“What is it?”

“That I’m pregnant,” Anathema said, with her most beautiful smile.

“Oh,” said Newt faintly. “How long?”

“About two months now, dearest. I’ve known since conception.”

“Did you tell them first, or did they just...figure it out?” Newt swiveled his head to look at them all nervously in turn.

“No, dear. They already knew. I’m telling _you_ now.” She patted his hand. “I invited them to bless the baby. If that’s quite all right with you?”

Wide-eyed, Newt simply nodded.

“Then let’s eat,” Anathema declared, clapping her hands.

Aziraphale’s small, barely perceptible smirk suggested he was quite satisfied with himself. Over what, Crowley was not sure. Crowley scowled and aggressively piled green beans and mashed potatoes on his plate, just for something to do.

“ _Bless the baby?_ Well of course, I would be delighted to do so! But I think Crowley should try first. He’s very good with children.” Aziraphale clapped his hands. “I know! _I’ll_ bless the womb, and _Crowley_ will bless the baby.”

Crowley ground his teeth. He understood Aziraphale’s game now. He didn’t know what Aziraphale had said to her, or she to him, but he could tell—something had been rehearsed. They had probably been talking about him.

“Yes, Crowley. Would you?” Anathema demurely folded her hands to beseech him.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley muttered, wishing he was very drunk already, and could not be blamed for what he would say next. They hadn’t even started eating. “You don’t want me to do it.”

“ _Fallen_ angel,” Anathema corrected, cocked her head, and said firmly, “I think you’ll find you can still bless things, if you choose.”

Crowley took off his glasses and stood, glaring with the full force of his yellow, red-rimmed snake eyes. Despite having seen them before, Newt gasped a little. “ _Can_ I?” Crowley drawled. Picking up a bunch of green grapes, he popped one into his mouth. “I can’t touch the things Aziraphale has blessed.”

“Well, why don’t you go ahead and try it? See if you can bless those grapes and still hold them,” Anathema said serenely.

Crowley glared at her. Anathema smiled back. When she held his stare, Crowley...caved.

Grapes. Grapes. How to bless _grapes_? What wouldn’t backfire? That was the hardest part. Sometimes it felt like part of his imagination had dried up since he fell. If he was honest with himself, however, there was a discipline to it that he had simply given up on. What had been the point? No amount of blessing would make up for his mistake…. He shook his head to clear it. Don’t overthink it. Keep it simple. Opening his angelic senses, he tapped into the ever-present realm of Divine Grace and steeled himself, tentative as a child dipping a toe into a sure-to-be-freezing pool— But there was no resistance. No bite. None at all. Grace flowed as easily and naturally as it ever did, like the rushing River it was.

No time to waste, in case it dried up. “May these grapes be rich and sweet as wine,” he intoned with the same gentle mockery he had used when he teased Aziraphale’s over-the-top miracle with _'Oh Lord, heal this bike.’_

And Crowley jumped. His hands were covered in sticky reddish-purple grape juice. He dropped the grapes on his plate (now inexplicably a very different breed of grape), hastily, and sucked his fingers before he thought better of it. He grimaced. _Real wine_. Nay. _Fantastically_ good wine, at that...

It hadn’t hurt him.

He backed away.

“Better get a towel for that,” Aziraphale said sharply; it must have looked as if Crowley had been hurt. Newt did not need to be told twice.

Crowley cradled his hands carefully, trying not to spill on the pristine tablecloth. The wine pooled in the palms of his hands like wounds from broad nails. The stigmata. _Like a sign from the Almighty._ He suddenly couldn’t breathe. “Bathroom,” he gasped, and whipped around and scuttled down the hall before Newt brought the fluffy white towel that would _definitely_ stain within reach.

Crowley turned the water on full blast and thrust his hands under the tap to scour them without turning on the lights.

“Crowley! Crowley, come back!” Aziraphale popped up, a shadow in the doorway. “You’re forgiven...”

“Shut up! Y-you don’t know that! _Sss-ss-shut up! Ssssshut up!_ ” Crowley hissed. He pushed Aziraphale back out into the hall, and slammed the door in the angel’s face. It occurred to him, rather late, that Aziraphale had only been referring to the Pulsifer family’s forgiveness, not the Almighty’s.

Crowley squeezed the tap off, wiped his hands, sat on the toilet, and clutched his head in his hands in the dim light.

“God---” he whispered. _“Why are you doing this to me?”_

He couldn’t refuse now. He was wretched.

* * *

Crowley came out knuckling his eyes, looking weary. “My apologies,” he murmured. “I was overcome.” He hesitated. Glancing at the nervous Newt, he slid his glasses back on.

The Pulsifers relaxed and Crowley sat down. They ate. It was delicious. Anathema had done the cooking. Newt handled the tea and the baking. Crowley avoided speaking to anyone. Aziraphale chattered enough for both of them. Crowley did not seem to be listening.

“Anathema, my dear, I believe you said something about receiving a _second_ volume of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies? Her last will and testament?”

“That’s right,” said Anathema cheerfully. “She wrote a note that gave the solicitor who delivered it an awful fright. That was a little over two years ago. Isn’t that right, Newt?” Newt nodded.

“Did you get a good look at them?” Aziraphale asked.

“No,” said Newt.

“Yes. Well, some,” Anathema admitted.

Newt turned to her, dismayed. “But you told me you wouldn’t!”

“I...I couldn’t destroy it completely! They’re a resource! What if there was an _emergency_? I never meant to look at them, not for daily life at any rate. Anyway, when you happen to stumble over a page that mentions your first child, you get a bit…” Anathema didn’t quite squirm, but she did look embarrassed. “Protective,” she finished, with fluttering lashes.

“What did it say?” asked Aziraphale.

Anathema blinked at them. “That I should get the baby doubly blessed by the two angels that I knew.”

Crowley looked up sharply.

“And the exact quote….?” Newt needed to evaluate the prophecy on his own terms.

 _“Dearest descendant, a firstborn daughter is born to you. She shall be blessed by the angels who stood at the left and right of the Antichrist, and walk with the assurance of one who has no need of prophecy; yet she will do all that has been foretold, etc., etc., and so on and so forth.”_ Anathema folded her hands.

There was silence at the table.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

“That’s us,” said Crowley. “ _Blast_.” He stared fixedly at the tablecloth. It was hard to tell what he was thinking with his glasses on.

Aziraphale frowned. “That would seem to beg the question...what has been foretold?”

Anathema pursed her lips. “The obvious answer would seem to be a second Apocalypse, but I don’t know.” She exchanged a glance with Newt, and turned to Aziraphale. “I intend to stand by my promise. You have Agnes Nutter’s book of prophecies, don’t you?”

“The Apocalypse was already well under way before...” Aziraphale shrugged. “And then the matter seemed moot. But I should have gotten them back to you.”

Anathema waved a hand airily. “No matter. I was _devastated_ at the time, of course,” she said, fixing Aziraphale with a sharp look, “but I had the cardstock copies my mother made for me...I made do. In any case, I don’t wish to be tempted to use the book, so would _you_ accept it instead?”

“I would be honored,” said Aziraphale, gravely. The outline of Aziraphale’s wings flexed and shimmered briefly in the air behind him, betraying his excitement. Crowley watched them mistrustfully.

“I will get it down. It’s in the attic.” Anathema left them. Aziraphale followed her, flexing his wings as he let them fully manifest.

“Do you understand what’s happening?” Newt said, after a minute. “I’m lost.”

“Nah, I can’t say that I do.” Crowley stretched and yawned. “I am... _completely_ in the dark here.” He couldn’t even summon up the energy to be irked about it.

Newt remarked, “Another Apocalypse sounds awful.”

“You’ve got that right.” Crowley sank into his seat, right up to the arms. He made a bad houseguest. Why Aziraphale continued to think he was halfway civilized was anyone’s guess. Newt just seemed resigned to Crowley’s strangeness.

Aziraphale and Anathema came back. “Here it is.”

“Details?” Crowley sat up enough to ask.

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, unfortunately. But I’m taking it home to study it.” He summoned a tartan carpet bag to put the book in, and zipped it shut.

“Bugger.” Crowley let himself fall off the chair to lay on the ground dramatically. Aziraphale sighed at him and sat down, nudging him with his feet until Crowley grudgingly clambered back up into his chair like a cranky toddler. He felt like one.

“Crowley?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Crowley scoffed.

“I mean it.”

“Angel,” said Crowley, flatly, “ _Stuff it._ ”

Aziraphale shut up.

Crowley decided he wouldn’t put it off any longer. Crowley stood. “Are we ready to bless the child?”

Newt raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“This isn’t going to be like one of those fairy blessings, is it?” Newt quavered. Anathema giggled and kissed his cheek.

“No. Fairies are insensible.” Crowley pulled at the back of his hands, as if removing invisible gloves, and grimaced. “It will be a straight-forward blessing, not a curse or a curse-in-disguise.” He flexed his fingers and knelt by Anathema’s chair, directing his question to her. “Do you object to the laying on of hands?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Put your hand over your stomach, then,” he told her, resigned. He took his glasses off and placed his hand over hers and closed his eyes, reaching for the First Tongue:

_The blessing of perfect health be upon this child from its conception unto death, and the River of Life shall cover her from the top of his head to the bottoms of her feet, removing the sting of iniquity in the name of the Ancient of Days, She who sits on the Throne for ever and ever, and succors the orphan, the widow, the downtrodden, and the lost…_

Crowley ripped his hand away and backed away fast, nearly tripping over a chair that was slightly in his way. He stopped when he backed into the piano in the corner and it jangled.

Anathema’s eyes were bright. “I heard what you said.”

Crowley would not look at her. “I only prayed for perfect health.”

“This child will not be a witch,” Anathema stated.

“No.”

Anathema lifted her chin. “Look at me.”

Crowley looked up unwillingly.

“Thank you, Crowley.” Anathema smiled.

“Don’t thank me. I just took your _firstborn_ ,” Crowley spat, ran out the door and shut himself in the Bentley. He turned the wipers on and blasted Queen as loud as he could stand it.

* * *

Aziraphale stood outside and knocked on the door. He mouthed something Crowley couldn't hear and gestured to something he was carrying. Crowley unrolled the window. Queen screamed like bats out of hell into the countryside, rudely breaking the night silence and crushing it underfoot, shrieking “SAVE ME, SAVE ME, SAVE ME…”

Aziraphale did not even tremble. Crowley flinched and turned off the music.

“I’ve blessed her. She gave us leftovers. Let’s go home,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley unlocked the doors and Aziraphale sat, placing the casserole dish between his feet, and the carpet bag in his lap. Crowley rolled the windows up again.

“What was that mix exactly?”

Crowley mumbled something about Skillet’s “Monster” and ambient magics and turned on the engine.

“I know you’re angry with me.”

“I’m. _Not._ Angry with you. Angel.”

Aziraphale could have said a lot of things. He took a deep breath and chose not to. “Take us home, then.”

Tires squealed as Crowley wheeled the car around and they shot out of the tiny hamlet at the highest possible speed.

“Just don’t kill us,” Aziraphale muttered, eyes shut very tight with his hands over his mouth.

“Eyes on the road and hope to die,” Crowley said dully, and changed gears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † Crowley’s acquaintance with Jesus was deeper than he ever admitted to Aziraphale. It was only so Crowley could be in position to corner Jesus at the Tempting, and given how erratic Jesus’ movements were s/he had to stay close at hand—or so s/he told Hell. Actually, Crowley was too fascinated to stay away. [ text ]  
>  † † See “[Communing with the Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475311)” by acommontater [ text ]  
>  † † † Warlock was currently somewhere in Virginia, and that was too far to travel without a serious discussion that he and Aziraphale were both wary of breaching. [ text ]  
> 


	2. Nails at the Crossroads to Damascus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _These accidents of faith and nature_  
>  _They tend to stick in the spokes of you_  
>  _But every now and then the trend bucks_  
>  _And you're repaired by more than glue_  
>  —"The Lightning Strike," by Snow Patrol

Crowley was unusually good with babies and children, Aziraphale knew, but you would never know it—until some exhausted parent dropped one _directly_ into his arms and he “stole” it until the parent took it back. In fact, Aziraphale had witnessed this happen many times over the centuries. What strange instinct led parents to entrust their offspring to Crowley’s lanky arms, Aziraphale couldn’t say, but he did seem to have the mysterious innate power to get newborns to stop crying. Aziraphale had even seen Cowley _coo_ and _babble_ at babies on occasion. Even if they forgot, babies understood the First Tongue, compared to which no language felt quite whole. Crowley had few reasons to exercise it without undue scrutiny. He would feel bereft if he missed the opportunity, even if he was too stubborn to look forward to it.

That’s why he had pushed. Aziraphale clutched the carpet bag to his chest. Somehow he’d gotten it wrong.

Crowley shut off the engine and waited for Aziraphale to get out. Aziraphale picked up the carpet bag and the casserole dish, but didn’t move.

“Crowley...?” Now Aziraphale was really worried; it had become Crowley’s habit to stay at Aziraphale’s apartments most nights now. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going back to my own apartment tonight. To sleep.”

“Oh, but...” Aziraphale fretted.

Crowley pounded the steering wheel, careful not to bump the horn. “I need the _space_ , Aziraphale! If I’m around you, I can’t...bloody... _think…._ ” Crowley slumped against the steering wheel. “When She starts sending _you_ messages, you can talk to me about it. But not _before_.”

“ _She?_ ” Aziraphale spluttered.

Crowley gave Aziraphale one last, tragic look and turned the engine on again. “ _God_ , Aziraphale.” His hands were shaking. Perhaps with fear. Perhaps with fury. Perhaps with rage. Or perhaps it was just energy, from releasing all that pent-up miraculous creation. It was hard to tell. He needed to come down. Down to _earth._

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. This time the exclamation was reverent.

“Don’t look so bloody pleased,” Crowley snapped. Aziraphale’s expression instantly converted back to worry, and he pressed his lips together; Crowley almost regretted the outburst.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale stammered, and took a step back towards the car on instinct.

Uttering a mild oath, Crowley launched himself out the car window, seized Aziraphale’s collar, and desperately planted a kiss on both of Aziraphale’s cheeks, and briefly rested his forehead on Aziraphale’s. “I have to go. You understand me?” He released him roughly. The glass covering the casserole dish in Aziraphale’s arms slipped threateningly but did not fall.

Aziraphale nodded, but his eyes had already gone misty. He adjusted his grip on the dish and the carpetbag in his arms and walked back to the kerb. "Merry Christmas," he said stiffly.

Crowley clambered back into the car. “I’m not going to shake apart, Aziraphale,” Crowley told him tartly. “I’m coming back.” Crowley readjusted his seatbelt and looked him in the eyes. “I’ll come back,” he promised, and he revved the engine and jerked the gear shift so that the car lurched and screeched away from the kerb.

“Well,” said Aziraphale to himself as he stared after Crowley into the chill night, “That’s that.” He turned slowly and walked up the steps to the bookshop. The lights flickered on as he entered. Aziraphale stashed the casserole in the refrigerator. Lifting the book from the carpet bag, Aziraphale set it carefully on the desk in his quarters; but he was so preoccupied with Crowley, any immediate interest he had in the book was lost.

* * *

Crowley turned into a snake, for snakes had no need of human comforts, and slept to escape. He did not escape. Instead he dreamed of Wars, surrounded by the colors of white, black, and flaming red, and he awoke human, teeth chattering and screaming bloody murder. Old wars. Old, old wars, with one certain outcome. The sorrow in that darkness wore on his soul. He drank to suppress it. He drank some more.

The statues helped. The throne room helped. They helped—remind him, morbidly, of who he was. Black and white and red. Lies and temptations and dozens and dozens of small murders.

Crowley retreated to the plant room and the comfort of routine and spritzed them and did not check them for spotted leaves. When he could stand it no more, he left the room, threw the bottle in the sink, and threw himself on the floor.

Dimly it occurred to him that he had told Aziraphale he wouldn’t shake apart. And that—that was _exactly_ what he was doing. Pain bleeding out of his heart, running everywhere.

Who was he running from? He wept.

There was a question on his tongue. He only owned half of it. “Am I...is She…” _Am I...is She…_ he repeated it restlessly.

He drank another glass of wine in one gulp. Broke another wine glass by throwing it to the floor. Hands shaking.

He turned and light struck him in the face.

“Is She calling me?” The rest of the question came as he crawled on the floor. “Is _She_ calling _me_? Is She _Calling_ me?”

_Why now? Why ever? How dare She dangle hope in front of him like this? Didn’t She Herself render him Fallen?_

These questions mattered, and they did not matter.

_What would **Crowley** do?_

“I...always...loved…You…” There at the heart of Crowley, he curled into a ball.

* * *

_Electric blue eyes, where did you come from?_

_Electric blue eyes, who sent you?_

_Guardian angel, always be near me._

_Electric blue eyes, I need you._ [ † ]

The song had come out of nowhere, and Aziraphale was pricked by a sharp sense of alarm and unease in the midst of a reverie.

Frowning, Aziraphale pondered the fragmented lyric, then glanced at the clock, eyes widening. _Crowley! He must be in trouble._ He rolled to his feet and cast about for shoes and socks. The message was imperative: he must find him.

It was about to rain. He caught the nearest bus to Crowley’s apartment. The ride was interminable. Almost he wished he was in Crowley’s car again, zipping through the city streets at indecent speeds. He clutched his umbrella and willed the bus to go faster, restraining the urge to leap out of the bus at every stop.

Finally it arrived. Aziraphale hopped from his seat and ran to the apartment, pounding up the flights of stairs. He could feel it, hovering spirits of pain and despair, and something—something underneath, it was very strange. Aziraphale huffed and balled up one fist. He struck Crowley’s door. “Crowley! Crowley! Let me in!”

There was no response. Quite frightened now, Aziraphale joggled the handle and leaned on the painted grey wood. “Crowley, I swear if you don’t let me in that I’ll—” The door crashed open, and he almost fell in. The door hadn’t been locked at all. Aziraphale tripped and skidded down the hall. Turning this way and that— ah, the kitchen.

 _Domine, domine, adiuva me,_ someone was whispering, that was Latin, _domine adiuva me, God help me,_ or was he saying that at all? Lips weren't moving. Aziraphale’s blood went cold. He crept closer. His feet nudged shattered glass on the floor. Spattered wine. Closer. There. Crowley was lying curled on his side, cradling his head, shielded by his knees.

Aziraphale used the tip of his umbrella to nudge the glass away from Crowley and grasped his shoulder, pulling him upright by the armpit. Aziraphale shook him and brushed glass from his clothes, glancing about the apartment worriedly until Crowley halfway opened his eyes. “Angel.”

Aziraphale breathed inward, sharply. “Crowley.”

“You came…”

“Don’t fall back asleep!” Aziraphale rudely prodded his cheek. “Can you sober up?”

Crowley lifted a lazy finger, pointed vaguely in the direction of Aziraphale’s nose, and flicked it. “..... _No_.”

“Please,” Aziraphale pleaded.

Crowley grunted.

“Last time you did this I didn’t see you for a hundred years,” Aziraphale started, a lump rising in his throat. “And I didn’t catch it. I thought you were mad at me, and I didn’t check on you at all.”

“Nnn-nn. Never done thisss before,” Crowley mumbled. “This’s new, itsss… s’not your fault, angel.”

The thread of Aziraphale’s patience snapped. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, _sober up,_ NOW!!!” Aziraphale shouted at him, wings flaring. He would not let Crowley evade. He _would_ have the truth out of him.

Shocked, Crowley went cross-eyed for a second, but he did sober. Somewhat. Aziraphale got down on his knees to lift Crowley over his shoulder, who stumbled forward, and they made it to the couch. Small cuts glittered all over Crowley.

“I could heal those,” Aziraphale grumbled, retracting his wings a little. “Or I could _let_ you be stupid. Which will it be, Crowley?”

Pride got in the way for a few seconds of tense internal struggle. “Heal them,” Crowley said at last, not looking into Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale sniffed, but he touched Crowley’s skin lightly with the palm of his hand and waited for the skin to knit together. It didn’t take long. “You’re coming home with me, and we’re having a talk.”

“...”

Aziraphale gave him a Look.

“I’ll be fine!” Crowley lied. “I decided.” _That_ was true.

“What did you decide?” Aziraphale asked warily.

Crowley screwed up his face. “Can’t remember.” Aziraphale waited. “It’s Her. Something about _Her_.” Aziraphale felt that a wave of that _strangeness_ again: potent, toxic, comingled grief and love. “I said I’d do it.”

“Do what?”

“Whatever She needs.” Crowley fell silent.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said patiently. “Who are you talking about—Michael? Beelzebub? We’re retired. We’re not on their books anymore. We don’t need to follow what they say.”

“M’not talking about heaven, Aziraphale...”

For some reason that was worse. “No, because here's what I don't understand. _Why_ are you talking about God like She’s your long-lost ex?!! Don't you still believe She was the one who hurt you?” Aziraphale’s wings flared. "You said you would never join the angels' side!"

Crowley stared at him. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows snapped together.

“The difference between you and me, when it comes to Her. It’s this: you _trust_ Her—or at least her ineffable Plan—I don’t. But I love Her. I have always loved Her.”

“I do, I know, I love Her too,” said Aziraphale softly. He wore a complicated, tender face he would never let heaven see. “But I don’t understand how this is hurting you.”

“Yes, I know you do,” Crowley sighed. “But not like I do. I had the hubris to think I understood Her. When the things She made and the things She planned...didn’t fit with what I thought I knew...well, someone else agreed with me. But before they turned out to be evil, I made a choice. I betrayed Her and I Fell, and I saw Her do great and terrible things, and I did more right things for wrong reasons and more wrong things for right reasons after finding a suitably 'wrong' pretext. And I understood _nothing_ anymore. I put myself in Her place. I offered people a multitude of choices. I re-enacted my own Fall through humanity. I worked with Hell. The Earth is...I’m fortunate...that you countered as many of my schemes as you did. That in the scheme of things, perhaps, I wasn't terribly effective.”

Aziraphale coughed. _Only giving millions of local people recurrent Very Bad Days,_ he thought to himself, because Crowley was too smart to do anything but, even when he didn't work with his full heart in it. Perhaps Aziraphale could have done more to stay Crowley's hand. He stayed quiet. This was a Confession, of the kind he had only heard humans make.

“But you don’t forget, Aziraphale. You don’t forget witnessing that at the heart and the core of all that, is Love—perfect or otherwise, I don’t claim to know, maybe it’s just a word that people say to explain something infinite, which it _is_ , but it’s also Real. You don’t forget Creating, or being Created. You can bury it, and not think about it, but you can’t forget the inexplicable. You know there are lines this old hypocrite won't—can't—will never cross. And if _I_ couldn't, how could She do it? I knew She'd never flout Her own Law, so I thought She would have nothing to do with me.

“But if She's speaking... and if She’ll still have me...back...whatever that means...what am I supposed to _do?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † Crowley would have recognized it right away as adapted from the song "Electric Blue" by the Cranberries. Aziraphale did not, as he was not familiar with the source material.[ text ]  
> 


End file.
